


If tonight's our night

by MsPeppernose



Series: I set these fires just for you [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Drunk Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:01:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5886964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsPeppernose/pseuds/MsPeppernose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I thought it might be a come-on,” Frank says.</p><p>“You want it to be a come on?” Pete asks as cautiously as he can. He’s sure there’s some anticipation in there too, though.</p><p>“I dunno.” Frank shifts and turns so that he’s no longer lying on his back, but on his side, propped up on an elbow and staring down at Pete. “Maybe. Kissing’s nice.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	If tonight's our night

**Author's Note:**

> Prequel #1 to All I want is Nothing, 
> 
> Thank you to Jiksa for cheerleading and to Immoral Crow for beta (all errors are mine though because my cloud drive is a jerk and only saves what it likes!).
> 
> Title from Blood Infections / FIATC

Pete bumps his hip off the wall yet again as he moves down the corridor, and that’s when he knows he made the right decision to seek out a bed for the night.

He’s had at least one beer too many. Maybe two. And a half. Not enough to make him messy or melancholy, but certainly enough to mean that he’s not safe to drive. A bed, some sleep, and some coffee in the morning and he’ll be set. 

He’s stayed over in Mikey’s house enough times to know that there’s one solitary spare room. Considering how many people are at the party tonight he’ll be lucky to get it, lucky if there isn’t already a couple fucking there, or someone passed out in their own vomit. But it’s that twilight time, the bit right before people start making the decision to fuck or go home or to sleep it off, so maybe it’ll be fine and Pete can curl around the squishy comforter and hope the room doesn’t spin.

When he opens the door to the spare room, he sees neither people fucking nor sleeping. What he does see is Frank Iero standing in his shirt and underwear looking like he’s about to get into the only spare bed (the inflatable camping bed set up in the same room especially for drunken pass-outs doesn’t count).

“Shit. Sorry,” Pete says. He means for walking in on Frank with no pants on, though there was no way to know the room wasn’t empty. “I was hoping to claim the bed.” Pete’s smile is a little wider than it would have been two beers ago, but he’s not sorry for that. Also Frank looks cute as hell in his boxers, who knew? “You beat me to it.”

“I was surprised it wasn’t already taken. I always crash in this room when I stay here.” Frank hovers at the side of the bed, and he’s clearly had several beers too, looking a lot less awkward than he should for someone standing in their relatively snug underwear.  
“Me too. I can take the inflatable bed?” Pete offers.

“Fuck. Really? That thing is horrific. Guaranteed terrible night’s sleep right there.” Frank pauses as he eyes Pete, and Pete sways ever so slightly on the spot, his final beer catching up with him. “I’ll share the bed if you want? You don’t like, kick or fart in your sleep do you?”

“Yeah? Awesome. No I’m not a kicker, maybe a cuddler? I was totally just being polite offering to sleep on that blow up bed, you know. I’ve slept on it before too, it’s a fucking killer.”

Pete unceremoniously undoes his belt and starts kicking his jeans and shoes off before he’s even shut the bedroom door, the alcohol in his system numbing any inhibitions he has, though that’s not many anyway. Frank climbs under the covers as Pete launches himself at the other side of the bed, jostling Frank in the process. He grins when Frank raises a sly eyebrow, but then settles down quickly, despite their shared little drunken laugh that follows. 

Pete usually sleeps shirtless, often overheating when he’s wearing anything more than his boxers, but he figures it’s not so polite to do it while sharing a bed with Mikey’s friend. Maybe he’s holding on to some of his inhibitions after all, maybe he’s being a little bit considerate even if it’s just Frank who’s here.

Pete and Frank have met dozens of times, usually as part of the group that is Mikey-Gerard-Ray-Frank. They’re a close-knit group of friends so it makes sense. Pete has hung out with Frank with just Mikey too, but never really on their own except for brief conversations or discussions at parties not unlike this one.

Sleeping next to each other is quite a new experience, though it’s one that Pete is fine with. They get along just fine even if their conversation is usually limited to music or tattoos or their surroundings, or a running commentary on whoever is trying to bed Mikey (or who Mikey’s trying to bed). They’re in that friend- of-a-friend place where they don’t have a lot of their own stories or anecdotes to talk through. Yet. Maybe they could have.

Frank’s easy going, and Pete knows he’s maybe a little stoned right now making him even more easy going. Pete doesn’t feel any discomfort or awkwardness even if sharing a comforter is kind of intimate, especially without any pants on. It feels nice.

“The curtain is open a bit. Wanna go close it?” Pete says. The light from outside is streaming right through to the head of the bed and even if Pete has had a bit to drink, and it _should_ knock him out, he’s used to spotting potential things that might keep him awake, spark a restless night.  
“Nope,” Frank grins. He stretches out and Pete sees the comforter ripple near the foot of the bed so he thinks Frank’s wiggling his toes. “M’comfy. Will you go?”  
“Nope. Go on, you’re closer?”  
“I’m totally not.” And it’s true. They’re both the same distance from it. “You brought it up.”

Frank’s face is open and smiling and Pete’s grinning too; their little back and forth is fun and Frank looks pretty cute as he makes little faces. Pete gets stuck staring at Frank, watching the light dancing in his eyes and the way Frank’s chest rises and falls gently as he breathes. He has to remind himself to _stop_.

“I might close it in a minute,” Pete lies. He probably won’t, that extra beer made him totally lazy. 

There’s voices out in the hallway, a guy and a girl and Pete instantly recognizes one of the voices. It’s Gabe Saporta and he’s slurring his words a little even if he’s trying to be super helpful to the girl he’s chatting with.

The conversation is going in circles as Pete and Frank exchange looks and giggles.

It seems that the girl is asking about Mikey Way and if he’s a decent guy, if he’s single, how she might approach him. Gabe is doing his absolute best to tell her in great detail how awesome Mikey is, and all of his hobbies and interests, _anything_ to help her. Though, sadly, he keeps getting side-tracked, distracted by the alcohol that’s so obviously in charge of his vocal chords (and his motor skills if the sharp bang on the door followed by a loud _oops_ are anything to go by). The poor girl probably has less of a chance with Mikey than she did at the start of the conversation.

Pete watches Frank’s face as they listen to the stupid conversation, and it’s a picture. He’s never noticed the sparkle in Frank’s eyes, the way his cheeks puff out adorably when he laughs hard. Pete also notices the _something_ in his own stomach that’s not alcohol, and might be related to Frank instead.

Gabe and the girl move on, maybe to find Mikey, maybe to have another ridiculous conversation somewhere else, and Pete’s alone with Frank again.

He’s still not comfortable. He fidgets a little under the covers, trying to find a position that’s not sprawling into Frank’s personal space. Which is actually hard because Pete is in a bed that’s not his and the sheets feel different against his skin and he’s a teeny bit drunk. He ends up kicking Frank a couple of times, but not hard, just little ones and then one slow drag of his foot that he thought would be against the blankets but is actually a long stroke down Frank’s calf.

“Sorry,” he mutters, even as Frank giggles.  
“It’s fine, but you really didn’t need to get into bed with me to play footsie, Wentz.”  
“I’m totally not,” Pete says indignantly, though maybe he is. It’s not the worst idea he’s ever had. Frank is nice, his skin is soft, and comfort can be hard to find at the end of a night drinking. A little footsie might be okay.

“Fair enough. I thought it might be a come-on.”

Pete looks at Frank and considers that thought. A come-on would be more than footsie, then. He can see Frank’s face in pretty good detail, the thick strip of street light coming through the curtains giving him ample light. Frank’s dark hair is long enough that it’s a mess on the pillow, his skin is illuminated with a blue tint from the lights, and he looks tired if a little stoned (or drunk, or maybe both), but his eyes are smiling.

“You want it to be a come on?” Pete asks as cautiously as he can. He’s sure there’s some anticipation in there too, though.  
“I dunno.” Frank shifts and turns so that he’s no longer lying on his back, but on his side, propped up on an elbow and staring down at Pete. “Maybe. Kissing’s nice.”  
“It is.”  
“And you’re not exactly hard on the eyes, Wentz.” Which makes Pete feel nice and he very possibly blushes in the dark.  
“Neither are you, Iero. So we could kiss?”  
“We could.”  
“We should?” It comes out like a question even though Pete’s body is now telling him he’s more than sure there’s should be some kissing going on.  
“Yeah.”

Then Pete feels nervous despite the beer in his system. How does he start this without just launching himself at Frank like he’d like to do? Frank hesitates too, and he says, “How do we-“ before he trails off and just leans in closer to Pete and kisses him. 

Pete doesn’t let himself think about it much, just surrenders to the feeling of Frank’s lips on his. He tastes like beer and smoke and something else entirely, and that’s the thing that Pete can’t get enough of. Pete suspects that thing is actually Frank rather than any mystery substance.

Frank’s still propped up on his elbow so he’s over Pete, and Pete reaches up, tangles his hand in Frank’s hair and pulls them closer together. It’s all close heat then, too-warm bodies under the comforter getting warmer by the second from contact and hormones and kissing. Pete lets his hands explore a little, the alcohol makes his movements a little less smooth than they would been otherwise, but he takes enough care to ensure he’s touched all over Frank’s free arm including the skin under the sleeve of his t-shirt. 

And okay, as much as Pete was temporarily nervous about initiating the kiss, the alcohol makes him brazen again and he goes for Frank’s ass, because why the fuck not? He sticks his hand down the back of Frank’s boxers and gives it a good squeeze, the skin soft but clammy from the heavy comforter over them from the heat building between them. Frank moans softly and Pete wants to eat the sound up. 

Frank’s hand goes right up Pete’s shirt, up as far as his nipples, then skirts around and over the nobbles on his spine, his hip, and then rests on the bare skin of his waist. Frank moves his weight, leans over a little more, and his thigh gets pushed in between both of Pete’s. Pete sucks in a breath at the contact, the pressure and the friction is just right against his dick, and he exhales a slow moan right into Frank’s mouth. Frank’s thigh is gone again a minute later after Pete has pushed his hips forward several times against it. He knows Frank felt his hard on, though Pete has felt Frank’s too. 

The door bursts open and an unknown man stumbles into the room, silhouetted by the light from the hallway outside. Pete has no idea who it is, and he couldn’t give a shit, but it makes him jump. Frank does too, and their kiss is broken. Pete breathes hard, though he tries to keep as quiet as he can, not that he’s trying to hide what he’s doing. But it’s not the best idea to draw attention to themselves when there’s a drunk and possibly unpredictable person right in the room with them.

The drunken body stumbles some more, letting the bedroom door swing shut too-loudly behind him. 

There’s more than enough light for Pete to make out Frank’s face, the glint in his eye. There’s silent giggling when the intruder slumps on the inflatable mattress which makes an audible groan, both of them shaking with laughter when the body instantly starts snoring, obviously out for the count.

Pete guesses the moment is over between him and Frank, whatever it was, but he chances a last kiss. He presses his mouth to Frank’s tasting beer again, the hand that’s still on Frank’s waist rubs gently, brushing bare skin. With the fright and the giggling, and the beer in Pete’s blood stream, his boner is fighting a losing battle despite how amazing Frank feels next to him, but he’s not sad about it. He’d never expected to get laid anyway. He pulls back from the kiss again with a smile. 

“G’night, Frank,” he says.  
“Night,” Frank says after a pause. Pete wonders if he’s going to say anything more but he turns on his side, facing away from Pete and doesn’t say another word.

Pete’s curled on his side too, mirroring Frank’s position. It would probably count as spooning if Pete didn’t deliberately leave a good amount of between his body and Frank’s. The kiss was incredible, and it’s made him feel things for Frank he’s never considered before, but he really doesn’t want to creep Frank out by rubbing off him in his sleep if his hard-on makes a return visit, risking waking up with his morning wood drilling a hole into Frank’s underwear.

He does however place his arm loosely around Frank’s waist. Frank doesn’t protest, and makes a pleased, sleepy little sound in reply.

*

It turns out the drunken body that had stumbled into the room was in fact Gabe Saporta, and Pete finds that out when he has to pass over the mattress and the still-passed-out Gabe the next morning. 

Frank’s nowhere to be seen, vacating the bed before Pete woke, but the sheets are still warm so he’s not gone long. Pete’s in a good mood, not much of a hangover, certainly not as bad as some morning-afters. He’d be in an even better mood if Frank was still in the bed, though Pete is not sure what sort of conversation they might have. It’s not like it’s a morning after a night of drunken fucking, one where Pete would wake up bleary-eyed and looking for his underwear, or even a morning where they might rub off each other searching for repeat hangover orgasms. 

They only kissed. Pete’s kissed countless people while he’s been drunk. And stoned. And sober for that matter. Sometimes friend, sometimes friends of friends, mostly complete strangers. So it was just a kiss, but it was a rather nice kiss, and Pete’s still not sure what would have happened if Gabe hadn’t disturbed them by passing out in the room. 

He narrows his eyes at Gabe’s unconscious body thinking he’ll give him an earful later on just for taking away Pete’s chance to see what would have happened next.

He pulls on his crumpled jeans and heads in search of coffee. He’s still feeling okay, it’s not one of those ninja hangovers that only kick in after getting out of bed, so it really must only have been one beer too many. He’s eternally grateful to that large glass of water he’d necked before seeking sleep because it seems to have saved him. 

He wonders if Frank is feeling the same; in a decent mood and more or less hangover-free. He also wonders why he keeps thinking of Frank, seeing as all that happened was a silly, drunk kiss. Maybe Frank is thinking about the kiss too.

Pete doesn’t have to wonder for much longer, because when he enters the kitchen, standing at the breakfast bar making coffee is none other than Frank Iero.

“Morning! You’re alive too,” Pete says brightly, his voice croaking from disuse and from too much yelling over music the night before. He clears his throat and tries again. “How’s your head?”

“Morning. Actually I feel fine. No hangover.”  
“Good,” Pete says, feeling suddenly weirdly awkward and shy like he’s never felt around Frank before. He’s just Mikey’s friend. No biggie. But it feels different. “That’s good.”

“You want a coffee?”  
“I’d kill for one.”  
“Coming right up.”

Frank busies himself rooting though cupboards getting mugs and spoons and Pete just stands with his hands in his pockets trying not to check out Frank’s ass. He fails. It’s small and perfect. Kinda like Frank himself, Pete thinks…which is another new thought.

“Milk and sugar?”  
“Yes please.”

Pete’s standing leaning his ass against the counter top when Frank hands him the mug. It’s hot and Pete takes it too quickly, spilling a little, dripping it on his jeans, on the floor.

“Shit. Sorry,” they both say, both seemingly trying to be polite and kind and not at all shockingly awkward. Pete places his mug on the counter, and yet Frank stays put, still right up in Pete’s space.

“Sorry,” he says again, and Pete’s maybe a little bit more hungover than he thinks he is, because his foggy brain blurts out, “I want to kiss you. Like we did last night-- I want to kiss you.”

Frank looks at Pete unblinking, and a slow, lazy grin spreads right across his lips. “Go ahead then.”

Pete kisses him slowly and reverently, and breathes him in knowing they taste as bad as each other. Maybe this weird new feeling he has in his stomach for Frank is mutual because Pete knows he tastes disgusting - stale beer and stale cigarettes - and yet Frank is sliding his tongue into Pete’s gross morning-after mouth like it’s all he wants to do.

They kiss until Pete’s head is swimming, until he’s certain that there’s not enough oxygen reaching the appropriate parts of his brain. They kiss until Pete’s body is tingling and Pete’s ass is pressed right up against the kitchen counter. Frank’s hips are next to his, just their jeans stopping Pete from feeling Frank’s boner properly against his. They kiss until Pete wishes he had a time machine to go back to last night and kick Gabe’s ass to stop him from ruining Pete’s nice time.

“So it was Saporta who slept on the air mattress,” Pete says, though he has no idea why he feels the need to say anything. Frank’s so close and Pete could kiss him again, or finish his coffee or talk about the weather - even that would be better than talking about Gabe, but still, it’s something to say. He feels awkward and his head is a little fluffy. He’s afraid that he might blurt out something worse like that fact that he currently has a raging boner (if Frank hasn’t already noticed, though Pete thinks he has), so maybe Saporta is a better subject matter. “He’d sleep through anything.”

“Yeah, if only I’d known it was him,” Frank says. “We could have been doing anything. Probably would have tried to fuck you.” His mouth is really close to Pete’s now, and his eyes are hooded and staring at Pete’s lips. And _fuck_ , that’s not playing fair at all. Pete’s cock jumps at the thought of Frank touching him all over, fucking him quick and dirty, both of them trying to keep quiet. 

“Probably would have let you,” is all Pete can manage to get out. He kisses Frank again, _much_ harder this time, hands around Frank’s waist pulling them close together again.

There’s a noise from the hallway about halfway through the most epic kiss, and they pull apart. Pete would be amused at the déjà vu if it wasn’t making him so fucking frustrated.

Frank turns his back to Pete and to the kitchen door making himself look busy by the coffee machine as if they’re silly teenagers being caught by a parent. Pete turns to the door and looks over his coffee cup at Mikey who’s entered the kitchen in his pyjamas looking dishevelled and bedraggled but thoroughly amused at the pair of them.

“Morning,” Mikey says, his voice as croaky as Pete’s was when he woke. “Good night?” He glances back and forth between the two of them and Pete concentrates on not looking at Frank so that he can stay composed.  
“Yeah, it was alright,” Frank says. Pete sips his coffee, carefully not saying a word in case he lets slip what a fucking fabulous night he had, and what an amazing morning he’s still having.

“Frank. Gee was looking for you. Can you bring him a coffee?” Mikey says after a while of stilted conversation between the three of them, mostly about who’d been the most drunk at the party, and how someone threw up in the front yard.

Frank complies, but then there’s some sort of covert look between them as Frank leaves the kitchen.

“So, you two.”  
“Hmm?” Pete tries, though it’s pointless; Mikey always knows everything that happens in his house and Pete’s not really trying to hide anyway. Mikey just raises an eyebrow and Pete spills his guts, though only some of them. He mentions about the kiss, but he doesn’t give everything away, keeping to himself _just_ how nice is felt to kiss Frank, _just_ how many brand new butterflies Pete has for Frank.

“Cool. My friends dating makes me happy. But be careful please?”  
“Be careful like Frank will break my heart?” Pete asks cautiously, even though that doesn’t quite make sense. Frank’s never come across like the kind of guy that collects hearts.  
“Be careful because if you break his heart I’ll kill you. I’m so down for my friends hooking up but I don’t want you hurting each other. You’re both important to me.”  
“Got it,” Pete says, and he understands. That’s why Mikey’s such a good friend, he cares so much about all of them.

Mikey disappears after a while and Pete finishes his coffee staring at nothing. Then he has another. He has to get going soon, but he tries to drag it out a bit because he wants to see Frank before he leaves. 

Thankfully Frank rounds the corner right before Pete is about to give up, three empty coffee cups in hand. He heads straight for the coffee maker to refill, but he gives Pete the slyest of grins. 

Pete wants to kiss Frank again, but he doesn’t. He also manages to not blurt it out like he did before. He goes to hang out by the breakfast bar again though so he’s close by. He leans halfway over the counter and fiddles with a piece of paper trying to look nonchalant.

“I’ve caffeinated Gerard. He and Mikey don’t even drink anymore, and yet they seem to need more coffee to wake up than me with half a hangover. You want another one?” Frank gestures to the coffee machine and lifts up a mug, wiggling it a little.

“I gotta go,” Pete says sadly. He has approximately nine hundred things to do today and he’s already spent some time waiting for Frank to come back. However he’d love nothing more than to stare out the kitchen window with Frank sipping coffee and talking about nothing.

“That’s a shame.” And it is, Pete feels it too.  
“It is.” He hesitates, watching Frank’s face as he pours more coffee, waiting to catch his eye before he says, “So we should hang out.”  
“Like just us?” Frank says, looking interested.  
“Yeah. Just us. Like a date?” Frank snorts a laugh and Pete’s smile fades. That’s never the reaction anyone wants to asking someone out on a date.  
“Sorry,” Frank says still grinning. “Mikes just gave me a stern warning that if we date and I hurt you he’ll kill me.”  
Pete throws his head back laughing. “I just got the same warning but about you. That’s why I’m asking so politely.”  
“Yeah we can do that, seeing as you asked so nicely. A date I mean.”

“You need a ride home?” Pete says, certain he’s fine to drive, certain that his mental fogginess this morning has been down to Frank rather than any residual alcohol still in his system.  
“Nah, I’m gonna hang here for a bit, drink the rest of Mikey’s coffee. But I’ll call you later?”

“If you’re still alive after drinking all of Mikey’s coffee? Totally! Can’t wait.” 

Frank looks at Pete and narrows his eyes considering. He bites the inside of his lip and Pete fights the urge to bite it too. “What?” Pete asks, because Frank looks deep in thought.  
“Nothing,” Frank says ruefully. “I’m just thinking I owe Saporta a piece of my mind for last night.”

Pete giggles and kisses Frank. “Yeah, give him a piece of mine too.”


End file.
